Table of Contents
THE WIDOW’S WALK
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
THE WIDOW’S WALK
UNFINISHED BUSINESS SERIES
CAROLE ANN MOLETI
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
THE WIDOW’S WALK
Copyright©2014
CAROLE ANN MOLETI
Cover Design by Christy Caughie
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
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Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-61935-617-7
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is dedicated
to the memory of my father, Frank Moleti,
and my grandfather, Alexander Bruno,
captains of The Sea Mist and The Sea Mist II,
who inspired my love of sailing,
the sea, and of Cape Cod.
Acknowledgements
This book would never have been published if it weren’t for the insightful critiques by Barbara Gordon, Andrew Richardson (who has graciously consented to being immortalized within), and John Blackport. Special thanks are due my husband, John Virzi, who has read every draft and offered suggestions and unending support.
I am indebted to Rayne Hall, members of the Professional Author’s Group, critters.org, and the Connecticut Romance Writers Chapter of Romance Writers of America for their help and advice while working on the series. And of course to Deborah Gibson and Janine Giordano for polishing The Widow’s Walk.
Chapter 1
The ghost was back. The odd smell, cloying, stale, like flowers a few days past their prime, tickled Mike’s nose. He rolled over and patted the tousled heap of linen. Liz wasn’t next to him, which wasn’t unusual. The baby still wasn’t sleeping all night, and she’d feed him in the nursery. But he shouldn’t be this cold under all these blankets. And that odor . . . Mike’s heart thumped, double time. “Liz?” No answer. “Shit.”
He jumped out of bed, knees wobbling as he regained some balance. His breath vaporized. The dim nightlight cast a shadow over the room, draping everything in frosty gray mist. And Liz stood in the middle of it, in front of the window, her gaze fixed on Cape Cod Bay. Tangled curls cascaded over her shoulders. Tears sparkled like flecks of ice on an unsmiling face. Her body glowed as if light shone through translucent skin. He’d seen the green silk gown on a hanger, along with the other vintage pieces. But never on her.
“Liz?” Why wasn’t she responding? Was she sleepwalking? Was she breathing?
Nausea washed over him like a rogue wave. A voice from deep inside, his, but yet not his, compelled his lips to move. “Elisabeth?” He lunged, grabbed her, but his hands caught only air.
She faded like specks of dust. Pain seared through his brain like a bullet, as a vision of carrying her body back to this room and laying it on this very bed played out like a living nightmare. Bile rose into his throat. His heart raced, then suddenly his cheeks burned. Sweat drenched his bathrobe, and he ripped it off. He shook his head to clear it, rubbed his eyes, and staggered toward the bathroom.
Liz, in the flesh, in her nightgown, came out of the nursery. “Mike, what’s wrong?”
Her voice, and the scent of lemon, cleared his head. He forced himself to breathe deeply.
“I’m hallucinating. Must have a fever.” Mike shivered and groped again, this time making contact with her warmth, her soft curves. He held her close.
She touched his forehead and helped him to bed. “You don’t feel hot.”
He burrowed under the covers to warm up, to hide.
Liz nestled next to him. “You probably got some bug.”
“Sure, whatever.” These random appearances made sense, at least as much sense as anything could make after finding out your house was haunted and the ghosts were trying to take control of every living thing in it. Liz dropped off to sleep immediately. Her heart pulsed like a metronome, rhythmic, soothing.
That citrus scent after her bath, mmm. Watching her dry off, massage lotion into her skin, and dust on powder. He appreciated whenever she turned her attention to him. Her focus was usually split between him, the house, the business, and the baby. She’d done Valentine’s Day right, starting with a filet mignon dinner by candlelight–after the baby went to sleep–and herself for dessert.
This was the first time Elisabeth Barrett had manifested herself. The rumblings were stronger, more insistent these days. They had to get the hell out of this house. Mike’s gaze kept drifting to the window, looking for more specters.
Eddie whimpered. Dim light filtered through the windows. Relieved, trusting daylight to restore normalcy, Mike went to retrieve him. “Hey, slugger.”
The baby did his usual total body wiggle when he saw his father. Eddie wriggled, and giggled as Mike blew a bearded raspberry on his belly before the tapes on the diaper crackled open. The kid was so damn good-natured he was a pleasure to be around. Even at 6 a.m. on Sunday. Even though he wasn’t his.
Mike took him downstairs and buckled him into the highchair. Slivers of bleached sunlight barely penetrated the lace curtains. The woodstove had gone out, leaving the kitchen as chilly as the bedroom in the draft
y old house. He passed a hand over the baseboard. Yeah, there was heat but it only kept it warm enough that he couldn’t see his breath.
“Here you go, Eddie.” He mixed a jar of organic applesauce with powdered cereal and spooned the disgusting mush into the baby’s mouth. Between spoonfuls, Mike prepped the firebox for more heat by stuffing wood and newspaper into its belly. After striking the match and igniting the kindling, he set back to feeding the baby.
He tried to enjoy the quiet of a midwinter Sunday. No inn guests, no chambermaids. No need to go freeze his ass off on Cape Cod Bay so Boston restaurants could offer live lobsters in the middle of winter.
While Mike tended to the fire, Eddie grabbed the spoon and launched a blob across the room. He proceeded to feed himself by shoving his hands into the bowl and then into his mouth.
Such mundane annoyances usually tricked Mike, like any adoptive father, into believing he was just a nice guy, crazy in love, stepping up to the plate for a man who couldn’t or wouldn’t take responsibility for his own kid. Not today.
He put the kettle on to boil, mopped up cereal from the floor and then sponged the gluey mixture off the baby’s hands and arms. Could this ever be cleaned up?
Liz shuffled into the kitchen, tying her bathrobe closed. “Today is supposed to be your turn to sleep late.” She kissed him on the cheek, then smothered the baby with those silly mommy kisses and unintelligible babble. Usually that was cute, too. Not today.
“When you’re used to getting up a certain time, you just do.” Liar. He was so tired these days he could sleep twenty-four hours straight.
She lowered her head. “This time last year you were semi-retired, and now you’ve got a wife who’s broke, a baby, and a haunted house. Working six days a week is making you sick.”
“I knew what I was getting myself into when we got married. I supported my first wife and kid by fishing, and I’m prepared to do it again.” Why was he getting all manly about this? It had nothing to do with things normal couples dealt with. They were different from everyone else. Real different.
Liz poured herself a cup of tea and a bowl of Raisin Bran for each of them. “You’re too old to be out there in this weather.”
He bristled like a mossbunker trapped on the flats at low tide. “I don’t feel a day over forty. And I don’t think I look it either.”
She traced a conciliatory finger down his chest, a lascivious grin on her face. “No, and you certainly don’t show any signs of slowing down. But it’s dangerous out there all alone.”
Liz got milk from the fridge and mopped up the mess Eddie had made on his tray. “I’m applying to substitute teach.”
The cereal looked far too much like Eddie’s mush. Mike’s head pounded, and the baby drumming with a plastic teether wasn’t helping. How could the glorious night before have turned into such a miserable morning after? “Once my house sells, the money situation will ease up. And, to be honest, it bothers me more that the Elizabeth’s ghost is getting so restless.”
A shadow flashed across Liz’s face, turning her normally smiling countenance into an expressionless, chin up, look-down-the-nose glare. “I’ve got things under control.”
Snow swirled, wind rattled the old windows, and seeped through the open draperies. The ominous portent wrapped around him like a damp blanket. He shuddered, but it wasn’t just from the cold. “I’m going back to bed.”
Liz’s sweet, friendly smile returned and she pulled Eddie’s chair closer to her. “You deserve to sleep as long as you want.”
He kissed her on the top of the head. Mmm, she still smelled like lemonade but he’d not be getting another sip until at least tonight–and probably a lot longer than that.
Mike untangled a baby blanket that had fallen on the stairs from around his feet and carried it up to their bedroom. The dense, oppressive chill followed him into the nursery they had fashioned out of the huge walk-in closet in the master bedroom. A moldy flower smell assaulted his nostrils. The green dress lay crumpled over a hassock in the corner.
No more denials. They had to get out of here–now.
Chapter 2
Liz busied herself paying bills, while Eddie busied himself in the play yard. No doubt, he was having a lot more fun. The heavy draperies in the parlor kept out the cold, as well as the light. An envelope slashed a nasty paper cut into her finger. Well worth the bloodletting, it contained a deposit for the upcoming summer. Taking reservations for prime weeks months in advance was a great idea, but that money had to be held in case of refunds. Still, it would keep her minimum balance. She’d squeaked by again this month, but it was only February. March, April, and May would bring a lot of expenses before the cash started to flow in late June.
That reminded her. She set aside the check and picked up the phone. Time to call the lawyer and find out when she’d be getting some disbursement from the estate. Her hands shook and she misdialed twice.
“Law office of Marianne Hartley.” The woman’s voice was far too chipper.
“Good morning. This is Liz Keeny. I was wondering if Ms. Hartley has any idea when the yearly partnership disbursement will be made? It was due by January 15.” She paced off her anxiety.
“She’s out of the office, Mrs. Keeny, but she’s been working on it. As you know, Mr. Jeffers has not been cooperating.” Just the mention of that crook, the partner her late husband had trusted to take care of everything, raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “Can you please ask her to call me back?”
“Of course.” She disconnected.
Liz dialed part of Jay’s number, then closed the phone. Every conversation with her son led to another complication. His betrayal hurt more than what Jeffers was doing by freezing the assets. The seasick roil in her stomach turned into an ache in her chest. The sensation of worms wriggled in her belly. Then came the sweats, the jitters, the compulsion to go up to the widow’s walk.
Eddie pounded out Beethoven’s Fifth on that infernal electronic toy as if on cue, and brought her back to the moment, albeit briefly. What was taking Mae so long at the store? Liz pushed her chair back and paced to release the nervous energy. Deep breaths failed to slow her heartbeat, the pressure in her chest, the breathlessness, the tingling.
How many people with panic attacks were unaware of the trauma of previous lives? They never understood why seemingly random thoughts could set them on a crash course. If she tried to explain this to a therapist, they’d brand her psychotic. Jay and Bill Jeffers would make a fool of her in court and permanently remove the estate from her control.
“Elisabeth, please, calm yourself.”
The baby turned to the sound of his mother’s voice and grinned. He raised his arms to her, which helped Liz get control. Would Eddie have any recollection of his mother as a lunatic talking to herself? How could she ever hope to explain this possession, this haunting, to anyone else?
Liz took Eddie into the kitchen and gave him mashed banana to keep him quiet while she steamed some green beans and cut up leftover chicken. Eddie examined each morsel before he put in into his mouth. She watched as the baby grinned with the discovery that the banana was the sweeter choice. He pawed the chicken and beans over the side.
“Dumb move, Mommy.” Liz picked them off the floor. I should get a puppy for Mike’s birthday gift. It’d clean up the scraps and maybe scare away the ghosts. But how would I pay for a chocolate lab unless I could find a rescue pet safe around babies-and the vet bills for shots, and heartworm and flea treatments? There’d be dog hair all over the inn, and any allergic guests would check the inn off of places to return.
“Shit, I’m going back to a negative place again.” Moving would solve all the problems.
Elisabeth squirmed within her at the mere suggestion of leaving her home, and the tingling, the worms returned. Edward told me to stay here, in our house. The ghost clutche
d Liz’s lungs and squeezed out every ounce of air as an additional reminder.
The porch door slammed and dueling Irish brogues sent Elisabeth back under cover. Liz exhaled.
“Fer goodness' sake, Mae. You’d think the inn was full with all this stuff!” Kevin hauled six plastic grocery bags, three in each hand, through the door. The overstretched handles tangled around his fingers, and it took him some time to unwind them after placing them on the counter.
Not to be outdone, Mae carried in three more, with a case of paper towels tucked under one arm for counterbalance. “It pays to stock up when there’s a sale.”
Guilt kept Liz from fleeing the kitchen and leaving them to finish. But clearly, Elisabeth had been used to the servants doing all the work She prodded Liz from within. Now. Go up there now.
Liz suppressed her and methodically unpacked canned vegetables, bottles of syrup and condiments, bags of rice and pasta, and boxes of cereal, then arranged them in the butler’s pantry.
“Have you eaten lunch?” She helped herself to a container of yogurt to quench the simmer in her stomach.
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